Fury

She was done crying. The shock and hurt had left her, replaced by raw, seething fury. The tears that blurred her eyes now were fuelled by rage.

She looked around the room that they had shared for 25 years of marriage. The bed that they had made love in, conceived two children in, woken up next to each other in.

She remembered meeting him in university, his clean-shaven young face and gangly body, so different to the fuller, more muscular, bearded man he was today. She had watched him grow from an awkward shy teen into a confident professional with the ability to seduce a roomful of people with his charisma and charm alone.

She had loved witnessing every milestone in his life.

She thought of his face when she pushed their daughter into the world; the pride, the love, the awe with which he looked at her and the new addition to his life. The fierce, protective energy that radiated from him as he held his little girl in his arms. His lips pressed to hers as tears flowed down his face mingling with her sweat.

She remembered him holding her as she lay broken and bleeding on the bathroom floor, their second child seeping out from her body too early. She had wailed and keened as he rocked her tenderly, swallowing his own pain to bear hers. In the days to follow he patiently allowed her to grieve as she needed to, in silent solitude, until she turned to him ready to share her hurt. They had cried in each other’s arms, watched their sleeping daughter and grown stronger.

She looked at the crumpled covers on their bed, thinking of the love they had made there, the raw, atavistic fucking they had drenched the sheets with. He had been an awkward lover at first, nervous and unsure, but she, having more experience, had coaxed and taught him. She had showed him how to please her and delighted in watching his eyes widen in surprise and wonder at the things she could do to satisfy him. They had grown together.

Her bags were packed and waiting in the hallway. The taxi was due. She had cleared out the joint account. She opened her purse and took out the article that had changed everything when she had discovered it wedged under the drivers seat of his car as she leaned in to retrieve an apple that had fallen from the grocery bag. The shock of it made her mouth water as nausea overwhelmed her. She had slumped on the back seat, the apple forgotten as her fingers stroked the familiar smooth red satin.

Familiar to her, but not from her own collection. She recognized it from the day spent shopping with her sister, her divorced sister, shopping for lingerie in her quest to “get back out there” as she had put it. Remembering how giddy she had been as she bought the burgundy bra, thong and suspender set, giggling about the man she hoped to seduce with them. The man who had been texting her on Kik for weeks. The man she had been exchanging intimate photos with.

The taxi honked its horn, bringing her back to the present.

She placed the bra on the crumpled white sheet. No Dear John letter required. The bra said it all.

One last look, taking in the room, imprinting it forever in her memory, she turned and walked out, closing the door with a final click.

She opened the front door, beckoned the driver to help her with her bags and walked down the drive towards her new life.

This hurt reading. Because of the description of their former lives, of all the things I wished had been part of *my* marriage and never were. I was never allowed to grieve (and that’s just one of the things that hurt reading your piece!), I was told that my angels didn’t exist. He still says that to our kids. It’s his truth, I get it…
And reading the ending… I can’t help but think maybe she is judging a bit fast? I’m sure there are many of any sort of bra produced out there. I’m not saying it’s not possible, I’m saying that, as a reader, if I’m not given more evidence, I think she is jumping to conclusions on her sister.
But it’s very well written! (otherwise, I wouldn’t have reacted that way in the first place!)